


Locked Away

by MariaPriest



Series: Torn Asunder [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 20:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15494313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: Illya takes a bullet for Napoleon and is paralyzed.  Napoleon makes a decision that will greatly impact both of them.





	Locked Away

**Author's Note:**

> This particular episode can be read as either pre-slash/slash or platonic/brotherly love, depending on the reader's perspective. Regardless, it's about love.

Sluggish, muzzy, he wakes once more to the familiar and despised smell of U.N.C.L.E.'s Medical but this time it's different. A familiar voice is speaking.

“... and a wound to his thigh doesn't explain his coma. I have to call it that for now because he should've come around within minutes of the injury.”

Laurence Samuels. Sam, as everyone calls him. The physician who has treated him and Napoleon countless times over the years.

He tries to open his eyes but can't. Tries to move his eyes beneath their lids but can't. Tries to move anything and everything or speak but can't. There are no restraints, no ventilator tube. Just the utter stillness of his entire body except for his diaphragm, falling and rising in full cycles of breaths. For the first time, he realizes he may have a horrific case of locked-in syndrome. Panic builds, though there is no change in his respiratory pattern for anyone to notice.

He wrestles his frayed nerves into submission. Orders his vocal cords to vibrate, his tongue to move, his mouth to open. He shouts, _Not in a coma! I am here!_ But his ears don't register his voice.

“Are you sure he didn't hit his head in the fall after the shot or on the way here?” Sam again.

“Positive.”

It's Napoleon. Hope blooms wildly in his chest. Everyone has said they must be able to read each other's mind. And they do to a certain extent, so attuned they are to each other. He is counting on his partner to reach out. _Napoleon, **listen** to me. I am **here**_.

“Illya must've noticed something when he got to the top step, because he moved to his left to block me completely and went for his gun. He fell backwards. I caught him and dragged him back into Del Floria's.”

Napoleon sounds so factual, so emotionless, but he hears the guilt that Napoleon may be able to hide from others but not from the one who knows him so well. And there is more, undefinable even to him.

“Have you considered that there might have been something on the bullet? Some sort of … toxin?”

_Of course! What would I do without you, my crazy American?_

“Downing, the neurologist, suggested that this morning. The lab just started analysis of Illya's blood.”

“And the bullet?”

“Already wiped clean, I'm afraid, and in the evidence locker.”

Napoleon sighs. Illya hears him scrub his face several times.

“Napoleon, you know if it is a poison or some drug that we can isolate, there may not be an antidote. And even if there is, we may not -”

“Sam,” Napoleon interrupts. Illya smiles to himself at the scold in his partner's voice. “Is there a possibility that Illya can hear us?”

 _Yes, Napoleon! I hear you so now you must hear me_.

“Why, yes, there is.” Sam sounds contrite.

“Then be careful what you say around him.” It is a poorly veiled threat rather than a suggestion. Illya has heard that tone before when Napoleon asserts authority over THRUSH minions and even Section II agents, himself included a few times.

“If there's nothing else, Napoleon, I'll leave you to visit.”

“One thing. He's getting something for the pain?”

“Absolutely. We're assuming he can feel pain.”

“Good. Thanks, Sam. Please close the door behind you.”

There is silence, except for the brush of shoes on the floor and the silky rustle of fabric coming toward him. The door snicks shut a moment later.

Illya can smell his partner's aftershave and beneath that the scent that is exclusively Napoleon, no longer overridden by antiseptic compounds. He takes comfort in that, okay with being immobile for a moment now that his partner is close.

He startles without manifesting it when Napoleon takes his hand between both of his. The calluses give him solace, and memory of how many times he has felt them over the years. Napoleon's touch has always been reassuring and so many other things to him.

Then he senses something different. Something disturbing in the otherwise warm, caring touch.

 _Napoleon?_ he asks, the fearful hesitation bellowing in his head.

“Illya, I'm so, so sorry this has happened to you.”

He feels growing despondence at the quaver in Napoleon's throaty words.

“You took a bullet for me _again_ , and I … I can't let that happen even one more time.”

Panic comes rushing back. _What are you saying, Napoleon? You want to break up our partnership? You've taken bullets and knives and punches for me. Two-way street, is it not?_

Illya jumps mentally when Napoleon's hand leaves his. Moments later, his partner's fingers are tucking his hair behind his ear – one of Napoleon's favorite things to do. The palm comes to rest on his cheek.

“We mean more, no, we _love_ each other more than we love ourselves.”

 _That is obvious. That is what makes us strong, Napoleon, able to complete our missions without losing each other_.

“Illya, I can't do this any more. I can no longer bear to see you hurt and suffering. I guess ...”

Illya holds his breath at the pause. _No, no, no_.

“I guess I love you too much and every time you're hurt it tears me apart more and more. I'm ... in tatters. Undone. Broken. And I'm pretty damn sure I can't be repaired.”

Now he knows what the undefinable was from earlier. Sorrow and self-loathing, both bone-deep and soul-wrenching.

 _No_. It's a weak but heartfelt plea. Something hot and wet drips onto his hand.

Napoleon, his incredibly strong, emotional, and compassionate friend, is crying. The combination of a future as a lump of meat and the pain with which Napoleon is stricken makes Illya feel severely hopeless and vulnerable. Uncharacteristic tears well up behind unresponsive eyelids.

“So I'm leaving U.N.C.L.E.”

Illya feels sucker-punched even though he anticipated where Napoleon is going. _No! **Hate** me, Napoleon, so you can stay!_

“I'm not telling anyone where I'm going or what I'll do. Neither has been decided. When you recover” - Illya grimaces to himself when he hears the doubt and grief - “please don't come after me. Don't even try to figure out where I am. I have my … reasons.”

 _ **Nyet** , Napoleon! No, no, **NO**!_ If he could speak, his words would be loud enough to rattle every auditory nerve within 100 feet.

Napoleon removes his hand from Illya's cheek, leaving it cold and naked. Tears spill from the corners of Illya's eyes.

His next awareness is a gentle kiss to his forehead, then one cheek, then the other. He finally accepts that Napoleon Solo is kissing him off and there is nothing he can do about it.

“Be well, partner mine,” Napoleon whispers in his ear. “I love you.”

A finger wipes the stream of tears from one side of his face, then the other. At that moment Illya realizes Napoleon knows he’s aware and imprisoned in his own body.

_For the sake of all we've meant to each other, don't go!_

“Illya, you should know that there is another reason for my … quitting. It's to protect you.”

_Stop this! 'Quit' is **not** in your vocabulary!_

Then Napoleon is gone, leaving behind only the moist spots where he'd kissed him and a bereft Illya choking on the tight throat that crying imparts.

oOo

Waverly refuses to send Illya to the U.N.C.L.E. rehabilitation and long-term care facility. Somehow, the Old Man knows that if he were to go there, Illya would lose any lingering vestige of hope he might have along with the will to live. By staying in Medical, Illya should realize that U.N.C.L.E. hasn't given up on him, that he still matters, that he can grieve the loss of his body and, more importantly, the loss of his partner and best friend, in the company of people who know them both and understand their unique bond.

So Illya endures week after endless week of feedings through a tube in his stomach, of diaper changes, of grueling therapy to keep his joints, bones, and muscles in working order by managing to simulate weight-bearing and resistance while he lies like a dead slug in bed or sits like a marionette with its strings cut in a wheelchair. It is humiliating.

He vacillates on whether he should or shouldn't honor Napoleon's request. On those days when he decides he won't honor that request, he has a reason for continuing: the slimmest hope that he will find Napoleon someday and convince him to return at least to him.

Friends come to visit, filling him in on the news – Vietnam and the assassination of Bobby Kennedy leave him particularly more depressed than usual – and office gossip, reading to him, telling him how good he looks. Mandy has bought him cassette tapes of many of the records in his collection and the nurses, when they remember, play them for him when he's alone.

He speaks to them all in his head, the only way he can. _Leave me the hell alone until you find my partner and bring him back to me._

Only his stubbornness, gargantuan survival instinct, and flickering hope keep Illya going.

oOo

Since Illya's injury and total paralysis, a half dozen more agents have been wounded and suffer the same pseudocoma. Waverly makes finding the antidote or reversal agent a top priority. Secretly, he rails against Napoleon Solo for taking a cowardly exit. Had he stayed, the chief is certain he would've found the answer many weeks ago, if for no other reason than his partner, the one person he loved more than all others, was in need.

The scientists, though they have identified the compound, make no headway in developing anything that might help Kuryakin and the other agents.

oOo

By chance, April Dancer and Mark Slate stumble into a lab hidden deeply in a THRUSH satrapy they've been ordered to recon and destroy. The lab is full of caged animals – dogs, cats, mice, monkeys – all of which are immobile. Mark cracks open the safe and grabs the entire contents, while April gently pads then stuffs every vial she can into her bag.

“Maybe we've found the cure for Illya, darling.”

“Let's hope so, luv. Just to be safe and sure, let's not blow the place up in case we don't have everything Medical needs.”

“Agreed. Let's get this back to HQ.”

oOo

Two weeks later, Illya Kuryakin, using a cane for balance, shuffles into his apartment for the first time in months, alone as he had asked. April and Mark have already restocked his refrigerator with fresh edibles and freezer with quality vodka and the U.N.C.L.E.-approved housekeepers have ensured everything is clean, fresh, and tidy.

He resets the alarms on the door before checking the rest of the apartment for anything amiss. Finding nothing, he heads for his records and turntable. He pulls out _Kind of Blue_ , his favorite album.

And there it is, within the album cover. A letter. From Napoleon. Of course he would know that Illya would go to his favorite first.

His entire body shakes as if he is having a seizure. He takes a few breaths and his body, now so blessedly mobile, calms. He sets the unopened envelope to the side of the record player. He puts the record on the turntable and cranks up the volume, hoping to drown out the screaming in his head.

He finally comes to terms with the fact that Napoleon will not be found unless he wants to be found. He will honor the request, if for no other reason than to save himself from ever-escalating frustration.

_I've endured other losses before; I will endure this one. I will lock this one away as I have all the others._

He slides the envelope into the pouch of a Johnny Mathis record Napoleon gave him and promises himself that maybe one day he'll read it when he wasn't so desolate and bitter. And lonely.

oOo

Napoleon, disguised as an old, wheelchair-bound man, lets the mixed tears of joy and regret flow freely as his partner enters his apartment building. He's been keeping watch from the garden of the building across the street where he's “lived” since deserting Illya and U.N.C.L.E.

As much as he wants to go to him, he can't. Too much and not enough time have gone by. Too much guilt and fear still linger. He is certain another injury, even a paper cut, to Illya will destroy what little he has left of himself. Maybe more time will heal his still-open wound. Then he will talk Illya into leaving U.N.C.L.E. so they can be together again, facing the ordinary dangers of life. Partners again, as they are meant to be.

_15 years later_

It's been time enough. “I can't do this alone.” Napoleon Solo pauses as if he were unsure or afraid, except he isn't either one. “I need Illya Kuryakin.”

oOo

Seeing Napoleon Solo in the Russian Cafe brings back the agony of his departure, the loneliness, the betrayal of their partnership and friendship. Until the good old memories crash to the forefront, and most is forgiven, yet not forgotten.

Napoleon needs him, and he needs Napoleon. He is genuinely happy when he confirms that it really is his partner.

Perhaps he'll read the letter this evening. Or perhaps not, because there is no need since he is back where he - _they_ belong.

the end  
copyright 2018

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to CoriKay for the beta. She definitely made this story better.


End file.
